Black Balloon

Chapter 9

I whiled away the days pacing back and forth in this place where time has no meaning. I occupied myself by making sure the number of ceiling tiles hadn't changed, and eagerly awaiting Mildred's next visit. She was the only splash of beauty in the otherwise drab hellhole, the only thing I had to look forward to. My understanding of time's passage was based only on the thrice-daily meal schedule and the twice-daily physicals, the latter alternating between the lovely Mildred and her much uglier and less pleasant counterpart, Mrs. Weston. Gendelman unexpectedly popped into my cell one morning (as if time of day bore any relevance) to find me laying on my cot in a state of bored stupefaction.

"Hello, Miles," he chirped in his overly articulate German accent. "Would you like a change of scenery today?"

"Oh my God, yes."

I popped up immediately, not asking where we were going and not caring. I would have followed him straight up Satan's asshole if it meant not being in that room a moment longer.

"I'll give you a minute to get dressed."

I informed him that I was already wearing my only clothes: my blue Air Force issue PJs.

"Very well," he accepted. "Those are fine. Let's go."

As I stepped out of the room I realized there was no guard stationed and I asked him about this.

"I've dismissed him," he told me. "Figured you could use a break from the watchful eye of the boys in blue."

Gendelman escorted me to the facility's administrative offices, the very same room Jonah, Priscilla, and I had crept through on our way in. It was surreal, being in the same place except with five decades of time's ravages now scrubbed away. The rows of desks looked as I remembered them, except a lot cleaner. The typewriters sat atop them, just as they had before but were now shiny and new, shimmering beneath the overhead lights. Freshly-lit cigarettes lay burning in glass ash trays while suits and secretaries busily typed away. A cacophony of clicking, clacking typewriter hammers filled the air along with a thick cloud of smoke.

As we made our way past each desk, its occupant perked up and typed faster, careful not to appear idle. Gendelman commanded a high level of respect among these people, or perhaps fear. Near the end of the room was a young woman sitting at a desk. Hers was much smaller than the others, more like a lectern.

"Good morning, Dr. Gendelman," she bubbled. "Would you like some coffee?"

"No, thank you, Ms. Perkins. No calls or visitors for a few minutes, please."

"You got it," and she resumed clicking and clacking.

He had one of the only offices with walls, as far as I could tell, unlike the other men who worked in an open office, their desks clustered together in one big space without even cubicle walls between them. His office was also quite large by the compound's standards, sixteen by twelve, with an ugly orange couch on one side and an elegant executive desk in the middle. If not for the lack of windows, it would have looked like some fancy-pants Manhattan businessman's office sitting atop a skyscraper, overlooking Central Park. Behind the desk hung a diploma from the University of Cambridge, a Doctorate of Science.

"Please, sit down," he requested, gesturing to two chairs in front of his desk.

Gendelman was an intimidating figure; tall, six foot two at least, and he carried himself with the graceful confidence of a senior statesman. He was older, in his seventies or so, but in a distinguished way; a thick head of greying hair, slim, and always well-dressed in European shoes and finely-tailored suits.